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She’s barely talked to me over the past three weeks, and for the first time, thanks to Rhode’s constant pestering, I’ve been trying—calling, texting. I get nothing back.

When I get to our apartment, I jiggle my keys in the lock, swing open the apartment door, and step into a smoky haze. A cough erupts from my chest. The shrill wail of the fire alarm pierces through the smoke cloud, drowning out every other noise.

“Gwen!” I shout, running into the kitchen. She’s bent over the oven, and thick, pitch-black smoke billows out from its opening. “Holy shit. What happened?”

“There’s a flood,” she screams, opening cabinet after cabinet. “What do you think happened? My food burned. Get the extinguisher!”

At least she’s making jokes. I plug my ears. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?”

“I don’t know!” she screams over the alarm. “Check under the sink!”

Wincing at the high-pitched wails, I rummage through our cabinets, pulling out everything but the kitchen sink until, finally, my hands close around the red tube. “Got it!”

“Open it!”

“How?”

“Read the instructions!”

I scan the label. P.A.S.S. Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Pulling the safety pin, I follow the instructions. White foam bursts from the extinguisher, dousing Gwen and smothering the flames. I spray until she looks like a snowman, the fire’s gone, and the alarm stops blaring.

With a huff, she swipes the foam from her face. “You were supposed to aim at the flames!”

“You were supposed to know how to cook!” I retort.

“I didn’t know the plastic from the meal container was flammable!”

We stand in the kitchen-turned-foam battleground with heaving chests, glaring at each other in a standoff. Gwen’s covered from head to toe. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look like an utter mess.

A giggle bubbles out of my mouth, and once it starts, laughter spews from my lips like a geyser. The relief from the situation hits me in full force.

She’s fine. Everyone’s fine.

Gwen’s laughter joins mine, and we quickly escalate into uncontrollable snort-fits. It’s the type of laughter that keeps rolling, getting bigger the longer it lasts.

We’re laughing until we can’t remember why we started laughing.

We’re laughing until we’re wiping tears.

We’re laughing until we can’t breathe.

We’re laughing at each other the way only sisters do—ugly and loud and a little mean because it’s at each other—but it’s okay because underneath all that is an unshakeable love.

When we finally catch our breath and wipe the tears from our eyes, the smoke has faded in the kitchen. We stand there, a foamy mess, until Gwen sinks to the tile, resting her back against the counter. I take a seat next to her.

Gwen stares at the cardinal by the kitchen sink window like it's the most interesting lecture in the world.

My lips curl up at the gentle serenade, but then she yanks off her shoe and launches it like a frisbee at the glass, scaring the poor bird so it flies off.

“Gwen!” I gasp. “The bird didn’t do anything to you. Don’t be mean.”

“It was annoying me,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut, and then, another giggle bursts from her lips.

I bump her. “I’ve missed laughing with you.”

She picks at her nails. “Me too, but I haven’t felt like laughing much lately.”

I peer at the dark circles under her eyes like she’s been tossing every night for the past three weeks. To my absolute shock, her stare turns glassy. She swipes at her eyes but remembers she has foam on her hands and uses her shirt to wipe it away instead.